


The Voluptuous Mister Holmes

by bookjunkiecat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And the profiteroles, Caught unawares, Christmas Fluff, Damn Anthea's retaliatory nature, December 2nd fic entry, Father Christmas - Freeform, Greg has a thing for Mycroft at any size, Lost wagers, M/M, Mild Belly Kink, Mycroft's secret holiday themed clothing, Mystrade Advent Calendar, Mystrade Advent Calendar 2017, Never bet Sherlock, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock is a brat and John is clueless, So bad, Warning for a bad Christmas pun, Weight Gain, but it made me laugh, dumb dumb dumb, fluff and cuteness, just silliness, like dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 12:04:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12887499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: As if losing a wager with his insufferable younger brother weren't painful enough, Mycroft's dignity suffers a further hit when he's trapped in a room with the object of his affections. It all plays out a bit differently than he fears, however.





	The Voluptuous Mister Holmes

_Christmas Eve_

          “Sherlock, is this truly necessary? You’ve had your fun and a good laugh at my expense. And I’ve agreed that you won the wager and I really fail to see precisely _why_ —”

          “ _Why_ , brother dear? Because it’s unspeakably amusing. Just picture _you_ as Father Christmas!”  Sherlock snickered most unpleasantly, and thrust the costume into Mycroft’s arms, shoving the pair of boots on top. “Besides, Rosie will like it.”

          “Miss Watson is not old enough to know who Father Christmas is,” Mycroft protested, digging in his heels as Sherlock tried to shove him down the hallway.

          “Fa! Kiss! Fa kiss!” The tiny traitor piped up, brightening as she began to toddle around the flat looking for Father Christmas.

          “He’s not here yet, Rosie, love,” Doctor Watson said patiently, scooping her up and trying to distract her with a sippy cup full of milk. He cast a hard look over his shoulder at Mycroft, “but he will be. _Soon_. Won’t he, Mycroft?”

          “I do this under protest.” Mycroft turned stiffly and headed for Sherlock’s bedroom, to change.

          “Sherlock, toss him a cushion for padding,” John instructed, pausing at the door. “We’re going down to Mrs. Hudson’s to see is she needs any help…I’m sure Father Christmas will be here by then!” He addressed this last to his daughter, who squealed excitedly.

          “He shan’t need it, John. Can’t you see he’s provided plenty of his own?” Sherlock’s smile was highly objectionable, as was his tone. “He’s put on at least forty pounds since this summer. Stress eating, are we?”

          “It is only _twenty-two_ , and it’s all Anthea’s fault.” Mycroft reflected darkly on the perfidy of his PA, who had been tempting him with baked goods for a month now. All because he’d—gently and truthfully—pointed out that she was letting her backside get away from her.

          “Forty.”

          _“Twenty-two!”_ Mycroft shut the door sharply behind him, turning to put the things on Sherlock’s bed and begin carefully removing his suit. It was one of the ones he kept in the back of his wardrobe in the event that he began to put on weight, as had happened in the past—although it had been some time since he’d put on this much weight. Sherlock was wrong, it wasn’t forty. It was forty-one. And it wasn’t _all_ down to Anthea’s sabotage; the evenings of excess since summer where his own fault…a man could only handle so much stress without any way to release it.

          Stress tended to turn him towards food for comfort, and it had been a very stressful year. And too, he had very little self-control when it came to tempting, delicious indulgences; particularly not when they took the place of sex. It had been rather an appallingly long time and if he were to be crude, he was positively gagging for it. Although of course, as with desserts, he had a very specific and refined taste. The object of his affections, however, remained firmly out of his reach, and thus, the overindulgence in cakes, eclairs and profiteroles. Sighing at his pathetic life, Mycroft carefully removed his coat (the buttons _juuuust_ fastened without strain—he really must increase his time on the treadmill) and folded it neatly, sucking in his stomach to unfasten his trousers. Oh dear, surely it wasn’t possible for his waistline to have expanded since lunchtime? Blast Anthea’s black soul for leaving a dozen Italian macarons on his desk! Setting aside his trousers and hoping they would still fit when he put them back on, Mycroft unbuttoned his waistcoat and removed it, before beginning to work on unbuttoning his shirt. He didn’t want to look at his reflection, so he kept his eyes averted from the cheval glass next to the wardrobe, and thought dark thoughts of revenge. Even if he had to wait months, he thought with dark glee, he would get Anthea back. And while he was at it, he’d see Sherlock got his fair share for subjecting him to dressing as Father Christmas at his and John’s annual Christmas party.

          “Oh yes, brother mine, you shall receive your due when you least ex—” The door swung open, interrupting his plotting and planned dastardly laugh, and in walked his worst nightmare. Mycroft’s vision actually narrowed to a tunnel as he stared aghast as the divine Gregory Lestrade was pushed, protesting, into the room, before it slammed shut behind him.

          The lock snicked ominously. Mycroft’s eyes went to the knob and his heart sank: it was the old-fashioned kind, which could be locked from inside or out, by a key. They were now trapped in the room together. And he was practically nude. “Sherlock!” Mycroft was washed in horror as his situation pressed in on him along with the suddenly tiny room. Oh dear Lord, he was enclosed with the one man who had the power to completely derail his thoughts and set his heart pounding madly with exhilaration, lust, attraction and longing…and he was in his pants.

          “Bloody hell! Sherlock, what are you up to now…M-Mycroft?” Lestrade had seen him and was, for lack of a more dignified term, gobsmacked. His eyes were running all over Mycroft’s exposed body, as if unable to tear them away from the sight before him—much like someone approaching a horrific traffic accident. Repelled but curious.

          _Yes, you may well stand there slack-jawed in disbelief; it is I, the enormous Mycroft Holmes, here in the flesh—so, so much flesh_. Mycroft flinched, wishing for something to cover himself with; but alas, he had just tossed his shirt on the bed and he was clad in naught but his red and green Argyle socks and a humiliatingly festive pair of boxers which he’d purchased on a whim. _This will teach you to be whimsical_ , he reflected with black sorrow. At least these weren’t the silk ones with the tiny lights.

          Lestrade looked around the room, avoiding looking directly at him after his initial horrified inspection. “Jesus, Mycr—Mr. Holmes, I’m sorry to burst in on you like this. Sherlock said he had something for me to see and then he shoved me in here.” He turned toward the door, tried the handle again, cursed. “I don’t know what he’s about, but I’m sorry I walked in on you like this.” He sounded quite desperate, and raising his voice commenced calling sternly—and slightly desperately— for Sherlock to come open the door immediately.

          “I don’t think that will work,” Mycroft said bitterly, edging toward the bed and wondering if he could leap back into his clothes whilst the other man’s back was turned. Well, not _leap_ , at present. He was far too portly for that. Perhaps a semi-dignified waddle.  A furtive shimmy. “Whatever he’s up to, he won’t let us out until he’s had his fun.” His hand was nearly on his shirt. Dignity demanded he not snatch at it like a skittish maiden disturbed in her ablutions, “Just let me dress and then I shall see if I can pick the lock.”

          “Sure,” Lestrade said, sounding odd…sort of…strangled. “You go ahead and put your clothes on.” He cleared his throat sharply several times, and smacked a rebellious hand against the door, as if overcome by a surge of irritation.

          “Just keep your back turned, please,” Mycroft requested tersely, ears burning with embarrassment. Of course the most singularly beautiful and heavenly man to ever grace this city had to see him in naught but his humiliating pants, and naturally it couldn’t be one of the times he was marginally fit. Oh no, it had to be _now_ , when he was enormous and ghastly, a sight fit only to inspire nausea and disgust. He should hold onto this memory for when he was home, for then he would purge himself in the first steps of a stringent new diet. His ungainly body had caused him enough defeat.

          “I won’t turn around,” Lestrade bit out, his usual affable tone sounding almost surly. Mycroft noticed unhappily that his hands were flexing into fists at his side, as if he wanted to tear the door down and flee.

          He must be battling queasiness, was most likely sickened by the evidence of Mycroft’s excesses. “I know you won’t.” Mycroft’s voice dropped to a private whisper, bitterness threading it, “No one would want to look at… _this_.” His heart was thumping unhappily in his chest, and his face felt capable of lighting the room from the mortifying heat that filled it. Turning away, he reached for the trousers of the costume; he tried to step into them but instead dropped them on the floor. “Oh dear.” He bent over to reach for them and heard a muffled curse.

          Mycroft glanced back over his shoulder and his eyes widened at the look on the other man’s face. It was quite…aggressive. Lestrade’s chocolate-brown eyes (So warm! So kind! Eyes that remained filled with humour even in the face of Sherlock’s incessant shenanigans!) were hot with anger, or some strong emotion, “You devil…how much can you expect from a man?” He advanced on Mycroft, looking positively predatory, “It’s bad enough when you’re behind your desk, lounging in your chair like a ruddy king, your eyes so cool they burn, dressed in one of those suits I want to rip off your gorgeous body…but this?” Hot hands closed on Mycroft’s bare arms, and he shook him slightly, “You can’t flaunt yourself when you’re so damn tempting, and not expect me to crack, for God’s sake, Mycroft!”

          “Hnnn…?” Oh bother, that wasn’t a proper word. Licking his lips, Mycroft tried again, “Whaaaa?” Better, but honestly not his best effort.

          “Christ, look at you!” Gregory’s hands slid down Mycroft’s arms, and held them out as he raked his barely clothed form with hungry eyes, “You’re always so slim and so elegant that I can barely stand it, but right now…!” Dropping Mycroft’s hands, Gregory’s hands went to his body, one hand caressing his chest as the other touched his side. Mycroft was so dazzled he forgot to suck in his embarrassing little tummy as wicked fingers swept over him. “So soft,” Gregory whispered, eyes coming back up to capture Mycroft’s, as he leaned in, his intention clear, “God, I want to touch you and squeeze you and kiss every adorable inch of you!”

          “Gregory!” Mycroft whispered, eyes shining, “Oh my dear…” He swallowed a giddy feeling that threated to rise up and send him into a swoon, dared to ask, “Are you—are you s-saying you don’t find me…that is, you don’t consider my current figure…repulsive?” He could hardly bring himself to hope, that after all this time, and right now of all occasions, that his admiration and pining could possibly be returned. But no one had ever looked at him like this before!

          “…repulsive? God,” Gregory groaned out a disbelieving laugh, tipping his head back to look toward the heavens as if for strength, before he looked Mycroft in the face again, an unbearably tender, hungry expression flushing his handsome features, “You’re more tempting than ever, gorgeous.” Synonyms for happiness fluttered in Mycroft’s brain before the blistering heat of his darling detective’s manly lips seared his in a captivating kiss. Time hung suspended as eager hands roamed feverishly, and they explored one another’s mouths.  Mycroft heard himself making appalling noises and would have been humiliated if he weren’t so stupendously happy…and Gregory could hardly fault him, as he was making similarly inhuman sounds of delight.

          “I am,” Mycroft gasped, arching into Gregory’s chest and sighing as skilled lips nibbled on his neck, “Ohhhh…n-not gorgeous. Clearly you’re inebriated and will regret this come morning.” But he was only teasing, hoping for a denial; as it was, he was delighting in possessive hands and devouring kisses; a Christmas miracle had come to pass, and his long-standing crush on the silver-haired beauty appeared to be most earnestly returned. “I am _fat_ , Gregory, and you cannot possibly want to see me like this, much less _touch_ me.” All evidence to the contrary—evidence being in this exact moment in time most...well, evident. Mycroft shivered as he looked into eyes shining with desire and lust and something deeper, something that made him feel a breathless hope that perhaps the man of his dreams wasn’t going to remain just an unreachable dream.

          “You’re enticingly plump,” Gregory rebutted in a sexy, growly voice, flicking Mycroft’s nipples lightly, as his hands stroked down over Mycroft’s chest to touch his belly in a thoroughly distracting manner. _“Zaftig.”_ The register of his voice dropped even lower; the hot insistence of his arousal was pressed against Mycroft’s hip, and he found it empowering, the knowledge of how much his present form affected the other man. “You're _curvy_ , Mycroft, so soft and tender, with that delicious give over the lean muscle underneath…” he shivered, sucking on Mycroft’s collarbone, humming against his damp skin, and Mycroft whimpered and locked his suddenly weak knees, drawing one of Gregory’s hands up to flick his tongue over the hard length, which prompted a groan from the other man. “God, Mycroft! You’re so tempting I can hardly stand it.”

          Mycroft nuzzled his perfect ear as Gregory lipped his way tenderly across Mycroft’s chest, “You’re utterly mad, my dear…but it is a madness I can only applaud.”

          “ _You_ deserve the applause, you fetching creature. Later…” Gregory murmured suggestively, smiling up at him as his hands pressed him closer, one dipping into the hollow of his lower back, the other sliding up and into his hair, tugging slightly. He brought him in for a sweetly sizzling kiss, nipping and sipping at his lips, as if loathe to stop. Mycroft knew precisely how he felt; but this was neither the time nor the place, there was shortly to be a roomful of people just the other side of the door. “Later,” he said again, clearing his throat and rubbing soothing hands on Mycroft’s back , “when we can be alone…I want to do more with my hands than applaud.” Burning, dark eyes were eating Mycroft up, “A body this delectable should be worshipped slowly.”

          Such a delectable purr should be outlawed. It most definitely should not be allowed to ever be employed by Gregory with anyone other than himself. Mycroft would set Anthea to putting something legal into play as soon as the fog cleared from his mind. “If you’ll allow me to dress, I have a part to play as Father Christmas. And then, once young Rosamund has retired for the evening, what say you and I adjourn to my home to discuss all the ways in which you can pay homage?” Mycroft was proud of how calm his voice sounded, although not as much pride could be taken in his greedy, restless hands.

          Gregory growled beautifully, stealing another kiss, hands sweeping over him for one last caress, “You’ll find I’m ready, willing and all too able to worship my delicious idol.”

          “You mustn’t say things like that, Gregory…it erodes my already perilously shaky self-control.” Unable to help himself, Mycroft bit Gregory’s lower lip, soothed it with a swipe of his tongue, before pushing him away, “Go stand by the door, now, or I’ll ravage you here.”

          “That sounds amazing,” Gregory grinned wolfishly, but stepped away, fingertips lingering for one last touch, before he turned to face the door. “Suit up, Santa…the sooner this is over with the sooner I can take your clothes back off you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, peeking over his shoulder, “God, this is shaping up to be the best fucking Christmas ever, gorgeous.”

          Hands trembling, heart beating joyfully, Mycroft hurried into the dark red velveteen trousers and coat, fastening the gold buttons and stuffing a pillow from Sherlock’s bed (his stomach wasn’t _that_ large, thank you very much) under it and cinching the black patent leather belt snugly to keep it in place. “I’m dressed,” he said breathlessly, sitting on the bed to tug on the fur-trimmed patent leather boots and zip them up, letting the legs of the trousers blouse over the top.

          Gregory turned and groaned, “Bloody hell, Mycroft… _those boots_.”

          “What about them?” Mycroft asked anxiously, looking down at his feet. He thought they fit passably well, despite the fact that they were a half size too big.

          “They’re…just, uh, hang onto them for later, alright?” Gregory was looking quite flushed, and his pupils were dilated. Oh. _Oh_.

          “Are these working for you?” Mycroft asked archly, strutting over to the mirror to arrange his hat at a jaunty angle and see about attaching the beard. It had been purchased by his dramatic younger brother, so it was a softly gray and white beard of theatrical quality which attached with spirit gum.

          “You could say that,” he agreed hoarsely, adjusting himself and looking away.

          “That can be arranged, I do believe, Detective Inspector…” Mycroft winked saucily at Gregory when he glanced at him with appreciative eyes. Beard done to his satisfaction, Mycroft viewed himself critically in the mirror; all in all, it was a fairly convincing look…certainly enough to fool a toddler. “Let us see if Sherlock will consent to us leaving the room now.”

          “He’d better,” Gregory muttered, pressing up against Mycroft’s back, “or else he’ll never want to sleep in this bed again.” His palms trailed up Mycroft’s thighs, over his torso, and he dipped his lips to Mycroft’s neck, blowing the beard out of the way to get to the tender skin, “Ooh, darlin’, you in velvet…”

          “Later you can have me in velvet and in nothing at all,” Mycroft purred silkily, giving his bum a little wriggle against Gregory’s body and smiling at the sound of the husky groan it elicited. He raised his voice and knocked crisply on the door, “Sherlock! You’ve had your fun, and now it is time for Father Christmas to make his appearance!” He tried not to laugh as Greg whispered, “Not as much fun as you’ll have later you tasty ho-ho-ho.”

          After a few moments the key scraped in the lock, and the door swung open; Sherlock’s unbearably smug face appeared, and he looked triumphantly between them—confusion flashing over his face at finding them giggling. It only took a moment for the great consulting detective to read recent events from their faces and a look of tragic dismay swept over his features, to be rapidly replaced with absolute disgust, “No…no, no, no! This is monstrous… _nooooo!"_

          “What’s wrong now, drama queen?” Doctor Watson called, sticking his head out of the kitchen, “Are you done with whatever prank you were up to?”

          “John…” he actually sounded weak, and he couldn’t seem to control the rapid blinking, “…John…they, they, they…”

          Stepping out into the hallway, the doctor looked from Sherlock to Mycroft and Gregory, brow furrowing, “What’s wrong? Sherlock? Greg?”

          “As usual, my brother failed to assess all possible outcomes deriving from his little prank,” Mycroft said smoothly, stroking his beard, “And as such he has now reaped quite a bit more than he sowed.”

          “Huh?”

          “It’s nothing, mate,” Gregory said, hands gently moving Mycroft out of the doorway, “Time for the party, eh?”

          “Sherlock, are you okay?” The doctor's blue eyes were anxiously surveying the younger man, “You’re starting to worry me.”

          “John, they…” he gagged, swallowed, tried again, “They’ve, urg, they’ve _mated_.”

          “Huh?” He asked again; really, Mycroft reflected, the man was very slow. “ _Who’s_ mated…wait…oh…God…you don’t mean…?” Looking both fascinated and repulsed, he looked from Greg to Mycroft, “Christ, not the two of you?”

          “We did not _mate_ ,” Mycroft snapped, face heating, “We are not _dogs_.”

          “Why not the two of us?” Gregory asked rather hotly, “It’s not that farfetched an idea that Mycroft could be attracted to me is it?”

          Darling Gregory. Mycroft’s heart quite melted. As if anyone could doubt his universal appeal…he acted as though the idea of _Mycroft_ not finding _him_ attractive was what John had meant.

          “I…dunno?” the doctor said weakly, backing down, “Just…um, yeah, never mind.”

          “They have marked one another with their scent and are circling territorially, flashing teeth at all possible usurpers! This is foul and unnatural and must end immediately!” Sherlock announced suddenly, having apparently regained control of both his voice and his sense of dramatics. He glared at them both, although his brother was allotted the look of deepest betrayal, “I knew Mycroft had designs upon Lestrade— it was why I locked them in there together—the chance to show him up was too rich…but I never thought that even Lestrade could stoop so low as to have any sort of impulses towards _Mycroft_.”

          “Sherlock!” His friend reprimanded, punching him in the arm before anyone else could do it, “You were trying to humiliate your brother? On Christmas! What is wrong with you?”

          “So much,” Mycroft muttered. He had a list.

          “Sherlock Holmes,” Gregory said sternly, setting Mycroft gently to one side and getting right into Sherlock’s face, “I’ve put up with enough to crack the patience and sanity of any man over the years, including insults by the dozen to my intelligence, abilities and skills of observation. That’s fine, I can put up with it. But don’t you dare stand there and say one more unkind word about Mycroft, do you hear me?” He flicked Sherlock’s lapel, pointed a warning finger in his face, “No quips, no jokes, no sneers…nothing. If it’s not nice, don’t open your mouth.”

          “We won’t hear from him all night,” Mycroft said dryly. John snickered, earning him an affronted look from Sherlock.

          “Be more pleasant that way,” Gregory grinned, turning to him and holding out a courtly arm, “Well, my voluptuous beauty…might I escort you to your eagerly awaiting audience?”

          Ignoring the snicker and the exaggerated heaving he heard behind them, Mycroft put his arm through his dear Gregory’s and sailed into the party, head held high. Let his brother bluster and pout and fume…he had a party to attend and a very merry, magical Christmas to usher in with the man of his dreams.

          And possibly some cakes to nibble. After all, he had a figure to maintain.

         

 

         

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft is such a splendidly sleek man, but I'll admit I've got a bit of a thing for him with some curves. Lucky for him, so does Greg :)
> 
>  
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @savvyblunders


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